


On the Other Side of the Fence

by laughablyunimportant



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bondage, Chains, Kidnapping, M/M, Needles, Non-Consensual Touching, Other, Robots, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicide Attempt, Superstuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-04 23:39:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6680602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughablyunimportant/pseuds/laughablyunimportant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Emerald Bruiser (aka Jake English) is really coming up in the superhero scene! Sure, he's lost a few scraps, but he's been holding his own with his arch nemesis, hasn't he? And, he's recently come into the possession of a top-notch sidekick! His former arch-nemesis' minion, no less.</p><p>Yes, Jake English is really going places--the only question is, where?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marzichan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marzichan/gifts).



> I originally wrote this for Marzichan's reverse superstuck au, wherein Jake aka Emerald Bruiser was a superhero, and Dirk aka Titanium Taskmaster was his supervillain arch nemesis. 
> 
> It's sort of unfinished? I was definitely going somewhere with this, but I can't remember where. So I hope this is enough on its own for you all to enjoy.

When you next power on, there is no moment of confusion, though a part of you wishes there was. 

You were in the home of—your new master? partner? companion?—Emerald Bruiser, also known as Jake English, also known as the bumbling idiot of a hero that had declared Dirk Strider, your creator, his nemesis. He wasn't very powerful, or very competent in using what little power he had (though there had been rumors, when your master first moved to the city, that when sufficiently angry his skin would take on the same hue as his name, and he would be imbued with incredible strength for a period of time. Though you have never seen data to add any credence to these rumors, they had been enough to guard him against any serious attempts on his life to date), but there was something about him that was just so…charming. He seemed wholly unaware of his own dated vocabulary, of his rakish good looks and the magic he could work with a smile. And he was just so _earnest_ about everything, expressive face painting an image of his emotional state at any given minute, jumping into frays with little thought or planning because _it seemed like the right thing to do_. His enthusiasm was admirable, even if it was at odds with your programmed purpose. 

He was lonely, too. You suspected that few would be able to pick up on it, though to one such as yourself, it was an easy conclusion to arrive at. His wounds were generally ill-wrapped, as though he had to change the bandages himself. His clothes did not get washed or mended as often as they should, and from what you had seen of his civvies, if he did have any friends, they must not care for him much, to let him out in something so unflattering. He ate mostly instant meals, meant for a single person, or else forgot to feed himself altogether (and how you knew that, you were keeping to yourself). 

But more telling than anything was the tightness to his eyes, the slightly-manic edge to his smile when he talked to a civilian to ask if they were all right (assuming he had won whatever tussle he'd entered on their behalf). You knew, from your observations of his behavior, that he wanted to talk to them longer, maybe grab a bite to eat, strike up a conversation, spark a friendship. But you suspected that he did not know how, or else, felt that, as a hero, he shouldn't. 

And as his civilian alter-ego, well—let it just be said, there was a reason Jake English seldom walked the streets as himself. 

So, you knew him. You felt drawn to him. And one day, you joined him.

The decision was sudden, but nothing if not logical. You weren't happy working for Dirk, you'd be happier with Jake. Perhaps Dirk would destroy you in punishment, but if so, that was a price you were willing to pay for a chance at greater individuality and freedom. 

He took you in, true-to-form in his naïve optimism. He gave you a name, welcomed you to his home (waving you off with a laugh when you called it a 'lair,' saying that sounded far too sinister for the likes of him). He trusted you, and as stupid a thing as it was to do, you believed he had no reason not to.

You were wrong.

You had been there eight days, spending most of that time taking inventory of his superhero-related equipment, beginning the pile of paperwork it would take to register yourself as his official sidekick, tidying up his house and joining him on his erratic-but-frequent patrols of the city, the two of you falling into an easy partnership that made you wonder why your own master had never utilized you in that capacity. He repainted your chassis, talked to you with a frank curiosity that unintentionally insulted as much as it charmed, and generally, tried to be your friend, you think. 

You tried to be his friend as well, though your personal experience on the subject was somewhat limited. 

Then, the eighth night, without warning, you abducted him. You unplugged yourself from your charging unit, exiting the room that had been designated "yours" to silently make your way to his room. He was sleeping, sprawled haphazard across the bed, lips parted, a line of saliva leaking from his mouth to form a wet spot on his pillow. He looked so vulnerable in nothing but his boxers, face slack and chest rising with the steadiness of sleep. His vulnerability made it much easier to inject him with a heavy dose of anesthetic from his med supplies, the sharp prick of a needle in his arm making him twitch and blink up at you. 

"Otto?" he said, voice thick and heavy with sleep. "What…?" His other hand went to his arm as you withdrew the needle, covering the puncture wound as confusion twisted his features. He started to lift his head, trying, you can only assume, to get a better look at the sight of injection, mumbling, "What are you doing?" as he struggled to rise. It was harder for him than it should have been, and he dipped back down once, twice, then a third time, eyes fluttering closed and falling limp once more as the anesthetic kicked in. 

You scooped him up in your arms, careful to keep his lolling head from banging too harshly against your metal body, and carried him to the Jeep in his garage. You made sure to buckle him in, reclining the seat a little and arranging his limbs so that he should wake no worse for wear, without any pinching aches or spots of soreness. Then you climbed into the driver's seat, your knowledge of how to operate a motor vehicle, though theoretical, sufficient to get you to your former master's lair. 

Sorry. Current master. You could hardly be said to still be English's sidekick, having just kidnapped him and delivered him to his nemesis. Though at the time your decision to join English on the side of good had seemed like your own, in retrospect, it was sudden enough to make you suspect tampering. As far as your analysis of your past actions was able to determine, your admiration for him was real, as was your empathy for him and sympathy for his cause, but the decision to desert your master for him would have taken much longer to reach on your own, if you would have reached it at all.

You _would_ have been happier with him, though. You still reach that conclusion when you run the data, but somehow, it matters less. When your master flipped the quasi-literal switch on your behavior on the night in question, he simply rearranged your priorities; no more, no less. Loyalty and obedience to the Titanium Taskmaster was your first priority now, over your own happiness, over your own life. 

He had to make a second adjustment, when you reached his lair, when English first woke up. You were still in the room (the Taskmaster hadn't asked you to leave, and you did not want English out of your sight). 

His relief when he first saw you, its transformation to confusion, to shock, to outrage and under it, hurt and betrayal, tripped something inside you. Something that made you ache and feel a hollowness in your chest, silicon-synapses meant to emulate human responses doing their job too well as you felt the swirl of guilt and shame and sheer horror at what you'd done and simultaneously recorded and observed the intensity of your emotions, the similarity in physiological symptoms to a human experiencing those same emotions despite the lack of flesh-and-blood body, compiling and sorting data that you'd just as soon lock away forever, hiding them from the prying eyes of your creator. 

An impossibility, of course. It made you miserable, just thinking about it. You suddenly realized you would rather cease to exist than exist as a forever re-writable, changeable, mutable _tool_.

So you decided that you would. Cease to exist, that is.

Titanium Taskmaster caught you before you could act on the conclusion you'd reached. His hand was out and activating the emergency override sequence stored on his wristwatch, shutting you down where you stood. Your cameras had a moment to record the world tilting, a slight downturn to Taskmaster's mouth (was it possible for him to be disappointed with something he'd never seemed to care about to begin with?), and, was that, concern from English?

Data insufficient.

 

Which brings you to now. Every memory clear, there, inescapable. Your priorities have shifted again, loyalty and obedience to Titanium Taskmaster still at the top, then your life. Your happiness is given no thought, no assigned priority, aside from the clear boundary of being less important than remaining a functioning henchman to Taskmaster.

You wonder if you can find sufficient data to support the idea that learning about your own inner programming to the point of being able to change it and develop a greater level of autonomy and independence would improve your ability to service Titanium Taskmaster. Probably. It'll take time, though; you'll need to fiddle with the figures a bit. 

Not that it matters much. Your auto-sync with the infallible, nuclear-based clock at the heart of Skaiaopolis informs you that you've been offline for two weeks now. English will be dead, or have otherwise succumbed to whatever machinations Taskmaster had planned (he never did tell you; he never does).

You look down at your chest, that hollowness from before returning when you realize the green skull English painted on you has been scrubbed clean. With only a moment's thought, you place the tip of one metal finger to your chassis, scraping metal against metal until you have a precise outline of his symbol, grey-on-grey.

It looks dead.

It's irrational, but you hope he's not dead. It makes you an impossible sort of henchmen, rooting for your master's nemesis, but then. You're more than that now. You're Otto. Otto…English.

You are Otto English, and you do not care about the fate of your master's nemesis.

But you are terrified to think about what might have happened to your friend.

 

You hope he's not dead.


	2. Chapter 2

You wake to the slow sound of clapping.

Your eyes feel heavy and crusted over, like you've slept too long or not enough. Everything's a little blurry without your glasses, but you can make out your surroundings decently well. You're too hot but shivering, sweaty and shaking with a pounding headache, and your mouth is so dry you're not sure you can form words right now, even if you knew what to say.

Otto. Your eyes go to him automatically, and you can't help feel a drop of relief. You've only known him a short time, but he's already shown his value, both on the streets as your sidekick, afterwards as your caretaker, and, dare you say it, in the snatches between as your friend.

But he's not the one clapping, and your eyes keep roving, widening when they finally settle on the source.

Titanium Taskmaster stops when he sees he's got your attention, shifting forward in the simple chair he's sitting in to prop a hand up and rest his chin in his palm, looking at you through tinted goggles. 

Your brain shorts, trying to come up with an explanation, eyes darting to Otto, then back again to your nemesis, thoughts feeling slow in their response. Taskmaster's here, so you're in danger. Otto's here to protect you, so you're not. But he's as impassive as his creator, keeping his distance and leveling an even gaze your way, and you feel a twist of unease in your stomach. 

Did Taskmaster reprogram him? Did he tamper with your friend in addition to kidnapping you?

But, wait. How did he even get into your house? You might believe he knocked you out in a fight and dragged you back here, but it hasn't escaped your notice that you're in nothing but your pajamas, and there's this weird, elusive half-memory of a pinprick sting on your arm, the vision of Otto's face floating above you… 

You weren't the best at building a defensive fort, but AG had helped you secure your home, so you wouldn't have to worry about attack as a civilian. There was no way to get in without intimate knowledge of the security systems, and the only person you'd ever told—

Your eyes flick to Otto again, mouth opening this time as the twisting in your stomach intensifies. 

Otto. Otto was the only one besides yourself who knew how to get in and out. 

The pinprick on your arm. The heavy feeling to your limbs, like the after-effects of anesthetic. 

Otto drugged you and brought you to Titanium Taskmaster. 

He tricked you. 

He wasn't your friend; he'd only been trying to get close so he could exploit your weaknesses.

You think you might throw up.

"I think he's figured it out," Taskmaster says, and you twitch and wonder who he's talking to.

"Wasn't sure if I should play you two against eachother, see what you'd do if I threatened him, but this is better, I think. That look, that one right there." He points at you, and you jerk back. You don't know what your expression is doing anymore, but you feel lost, so fucking _lost_. 

The showdown between you and Taskmaster is interrupted when Taskmaster jumps up to face Otto, hand at his watch manipulating something, and then Otto collapses right where he stands, metal screeching and clanging as he falls. You gape, jerking forward, and it's then, only then that you become aware of the manacles chaining you to the wall as _restraints_ , and not just abstract weights, cold against your skin.

Well, fuck.

"Otto," you call. "Otto!" He doesn't respond. 

Taskmaster makes a small, dismissive gesture, settling back down in his chair. "He's fine. I'll make the necessary adjustments."

You pull against your restraints again, this time testing their strength, looking for weaknesses (there are none). You bare your teeth at him and growl out, "You better not hurt him." The rasp edging your voice lends your bravado credence, and when Titanium Taskmaster's expression drops back to a blank, unreadable slate, you think you just might have actually scared him.

"You really care about him." The tone is flat, the expressionless, smarter-than-you one that makes you feel like he's only even talking to you because he's making fun of you in some way. You turn your chin up at him, not feeling like there's much to be brave about, but knowing this is what the hero always does in movies. 

"He was my friend," you say. "I wouldn't expect you to know anything about that."

That gets a smirk from him, steepling his fingers together carefully as he leans back, one corner of his mouth upturned just the slightest bit. "Was he? I believe you were on the edge of a cognitive breakthrough before that little distraction. Please, elaborate for me just how good of a _friend_ he was."

You feel a flush rising to your cheeks, but resist the urge to look away. "He was a perfectly splendid sidekick, and a damn fine friend! When I get out of here, I'm going to undo whatever you did to him and _kick your ass_."

He's up out of the chair and standing in front of you too fast for your eyes to follow, standing a foot before you with all the casual poise of a playboy millionaire (you suppose he could be a playboy millionaire, for all you know; you've yet to figure out his secret identity). His hands rest easy in the pockets of his stylish orange trousers, head tilted slightly as his eyes seem to scan you up and down. "Are you really so desperate for companionship that you'd delude yourself into thinking a machine—the machine that delivered you into the hands of your enemy, no less—is your friend?" 

He takes a step forward, slow, deliberate this time, reaching a hand up and sending it to your face. You shrink back, and he pauses, waiting until you're pressed flush to the wall to continue his movement. His hand cups your face, dry and warm against clammy skin, his thumb brushing against your cheek in a way that makes you shudder. "I assure you, I could be much better company than that."

You try not to think about it, choosing instead to believe that Otto really is your friend, that you'll get out of whatever this is and rescue him if necessary, that the two of you will pick back up right where you left off. If you think about it too hard, you might start to think about how sudden his switch is, how he didn't even bother to dress you before throwing you at the mercy of your nemesis, how, even if things between the two of you really are sincere, you're chained to a wall in nothing but your boxers, he's a collapsed pile of scrap a few feet away, and the only other person who's ever maybe cared about you was AG, and you two have been on the rocks ever since that ill-advised attempt of yours to romance the hell out of her. 

You try not to think about how you have no idea how you're going to get out of this, and instead push off the wall at your back to come straight at Strider, yelling and raising your arm to knock his block right off his shoulders! 

He catches your wrist before your punch can make contact, fingers tightened to the point of grinding your bones together. He's still, simply holding you in place, face inches from yours. You can see his eyes through his tinted goggles, flicking across your expression, and color rises to your cheeks out of embarrassment, though you've got no idea what you're embarrassed about.

"What do you want from me?" you ask, and though it's the right line, a hero's line, it comes out all wrong, a barely-whispered question full of more fear than you even realized you were feeling. 

He tilts his head a little. "Who says I want anything at all? Maybe I'm just worried about your well-being. Not everyone's as forgiving as I am, English. You're going to get killed if you keep running around out there waggling your little boxer get-up in the face of real evil."

You scowl, feeling on a bit better ground with him poking fun at you. "I don't rightly know, I'm staring at some pretty vile evil right now, and it doesn't seem so impressive to me."

He releases your wrist, shifting back, and you try to rub at it around the manacle, easing the soreness of your joint. You give him a bold grin, continuing, "Perhaps you just don't think you can take me on! You've resorted to underhanded tactahh _what the dickens_?" 

He's worrying at his watch again, and then your restraints jerk, the length of chains suddenly retracting, pulling you back until you're flush against the wall, wrists pulled taut and pinning you still. Your feet scrabble and kick, trying to push yourself away, but there's no budging, and you're left spread open, chest heaving with effort and panic, standing on your tip-toes to try to relieve some of the strain on your arms. You look up to find Taskmaster watching you, a smirk hovering on his lips. 

"Comfortable?" 

"Quite alright," you pant. "Really stretches you out. You should give it a try sometime, old chap." He raises an eyebrow at you, and you feel a stirring of pride, that you're keeping your head in all this, that you're acting like a real hero, and that maybe you'll come out of all this alright.

Then Taskmaster steps forward and kisses you, and all of that flies right out of your head. 

The distance between you disappears as fast as last time, and his hand is cupping your face, sliding up to tangle in your hair as he tilts his head and brings his lips to yours, planting kisses across your mouth, slow and soft but somehow _hungry_. 

You're in shock, unmoving, and then you're scrabbling again, pushing yourself back and away from him, gasping and twisting to get further from him, turning your face aside to break the liplock, which, it turns out, was probably a bad idea. You feel his lips on your neck next, and now he's pouring more into it, tongue sliding wet across your skin, roving up to nibble at your ear. Your attempts to get away only bare your neck further, and when he bites down on your skin, lips sealing to suck at your throat and send a bolt of sensation straight to your groin, a sob bubbles out of your throat. 

This isn't right. This wasn't in any of your movies. Sometimes there was sexual tension and biting banter but never _this_. Aggression and need and just taking it because you were too weak to stop him—you push yourself higher up on your toes, trying to inch away. Then you feel a hand resting on the waistband of your boxers, sliding down to feel you through the thin layer of cloth, and the twitch you give in response makes you flame red in shame. 

Then he's gone, and it's cold, cold air against your skin, your vision swimming in his absence and sagging , arms aching in pain at suddenly supporting all your weight. Titanium Taskmaster's voice floats over to you from somewhere across the room, "You may be lacking experience in the matter, but it's generally tradition to kiss back, when someone kisses you." Then there are footsteps getting quieter, moving away from you, and then you're alone with Otto's crumpled form.

Then another robot comes and takes him, and you're really alone.

 

It occurs to you, after what feels like a long time, that Taskmaster normally moves with the same quiet stealth as his doppelganger. He deliberately made his steps loud enough for you to know that he was leaving, even if you weren't paying attention.

Because he was trying to be nice? Or to lure you into a false sense of security, make you less prepared for when he came back his normal, silent self?

You don't know.

 

 

 

You really hope Otto is okay.


	3. Chapter 3

Your arms ache.

You're hungry, and thirsty, and tired. You've got a pounding headache and your thoughts won't quite line up in the way you want them to. Everything's still a little blurry without your glasses, and your attempts to keep track of how long you've been here have withered away into nothing. But, most of all, your arms ache. 

So when Taskmaster comes back and decides to pick things up where he left off, you have a plan. You kiss him back, dry lips parting to let his tongue in your mouth, sucking on the slick muscle, straining to pull from your bonds to press into him. He ducks down to your neck like last time, dipping to let his teeth graze your collarbone, and you moan for him, letting yourself feel and enjoy the sensations, trying to divorce yourself from the context. 

He seems to appreciate your efforts, responding with a hand on your chest, gliding over skin. When you gasp out that you want to touch him, please, please, just release your arms so you can touch him, he pauses, eyeing you for a while as though trying to gauge your sincerity. So you move your hips, rolling them forward as much as you can like this, grinding against him and fuck, _fuck_ that feels good. 

Your arms loosen then, suddenly, a foot of slack making you slump forward against him. He steadies you with a hand on each of your shoulders, and you sway on tired feet, feeling the sluggish flow of blood returning to your arms, but not enough, still not enough. You make a show of tugging at the chains, trying to press your body to his. You remind yourself that this is only a ploy, that you just need to gain enough movement to wrap the chains around his throat, incapacitate him and gain access to that infernal wristwatch so you can free yourself and get the hell out of here.

You try to ignore the implications of your half-hard dick, and what that says about how much of a ruse this is.

He gives you more slack. Before you can think to use it to your advantage, he shoves you down to your knees, puts you at eye-level with his crotch. You realize that he's going to have you, do something. Something sexual. So you headbutt him. Right in the crotch. 

He realizes your intent quick enough to move back, but not quick enough to avoid you entirely. He grits his teeth and spits out curses, sitting in the middle of the room, out of your reach, face twisted in the most sincere expression you've ever seen on him: pain.

After a while he recovers and hisses out, "What the _fuck_ was that for?"

"So sorry I couldn't make your sexual exploitation of my person more convenient, _old chap_." Your words sound stronger than you're used to, more bitter. You can't find it in yourself to feel proud that they sound more real.

He pushes himself to his feet then, expression furious. You blame it on the sexual heat from a moment ago, on the fact that there's still adrenaline pumping through your system, that you find it sort of breathtaking. "Last time I checked, people being exploited don't rut against their partners like a lovesick dog, moaning like a ten dollar whore."

"Oh, well I'd take the time to be a little more expressive and sincere, but it seems like I'm _all tied up at the moment_." He stops then, expression unreadable behind his goggles. He reaches for his watch, and your stomach twists with something sick. You only just barely manage not to beg him to not string you up again when he manipulates the device to send coils of chains tumbling down. He turns then, stalking out of the room, and it's only as the door is closing that you think to shout, "What in kicking-christ do you _want_ from me?"

" _And **where** is Otto?_ "


	4. Chapter 4

You don't see Titanium Taskmaster for a while after that.

You're not sure how long it is. There's only artificial light here, in this room, and even that's dimmed to little more than a weak spotlight on you when no one else is around. It feels like weeks. If you had to hazard a real estimate, though, you'd put it on five or six days.

In all that time, only his robots come for you. The regular sort, the ones he uses for menial chores or simple tasks on heists. Not Otto. Never Otto. They bring you water and food, and, it turns out, respond to requests. By the fourth meal you're chowing on steak and drinking pink lemonade. It's better fare than you get at home, and a vindictive part of you wants to go back to gruel and water, to help you remember that you're here as a prisoner, against your will. 

You convince yourself instead that the cost of your fancy meals is more hurtful to Taskmaster.

 

He doesn’t come back. He doesn't loosen or tighten your chains any further, and you discover you can walk so far as to stand three feet from the door he comes in-and-out of, the one you assume leads to the rest of his lair. The rest of the room is unhelpful; there are squares of metal set in the wall at regular intervals, but otherwise, it's featureless. 

After a while, you realize that some of the squares are the same size and distance apart as the openings your chains come out of. Further exploration reveals metal squares the same size, but positioned differently—at about waist-height, and along the floor, at about ankle-height.

You shiver, and feel suddenly grateful that he considered the wrist-manacles sufficient. 

When it seems clear he's not going to come back, you enact your original plan on one of his robots, looping your chains around its neck when it comes close enough, pulling tight until the metal bends and screeches, sparks and the sudden dimming of its eyes telling you you've broken it sufficiently. Nothing comes of the event, but another robot, some time later, dragging its broken companion away and leaving you alone once more. 

There's probably no point in trying again.

(You wonder again what happened to Otto. )

 

After a while, you start talking to the robots.

They're perfunctory about cleaning you, providing you with food and drink, cleaning up your waste, but they're terrible conversationalists. That's alright, you can keep up enough banter for everyone.

You've named them all. The short, squat one with a square head is Squarewave. The tall one with a jagged line for a mouth is Sawtooth. The jerky, pencil-thin one with odd joints is Zoe. The middling one, with too many arms and eyes and no mouth, is Jolie. You talk to them, and ask them questions that they don't respond to. 

And though you know you shouldn't, know that Titanium Taskmaster is probably listening, you tell them about yourself.

Well, alright. Mostly you talk about movies. But there's the odd tidbit or two about yourself in there as well. 

 

It's in the middle of one of these rambles, Zoe scrubbing your hair as she dunks your head back in the small washbasin she's brought in for the purpose, that Taskmaster comes back.

"—and of course I didn't know what to do, but it seemed very gentlemanly to pat her on the back and agree that Brad was indeed a cur, and wouldn't you know it, she looked up at me and kissed me! I'll admit it was not the best plan on my part, but I absconded as fast as I was able. She probably thinks I'm a right villain now, having never shown back up at work. Oh yes, I—"

"If a kiss is all it takes to turn you to a villain, I wonder why mine didn't work. Maybe we should repeat the experiment to see if its results are reproducible."

You jerk up, upsetting the basin and sending soapy water sloshing down your back, setting Zoe to sparking and jerking. She's still functioning enough to exit when Taskmaster dismisses her, leaving him alone with you, shivering and damp before him. 

You scramble to your feet, settling into a fighting stance, chains clanking as you raise your fists in front of you. He surprises you by tossing you a bundle he'd been carrying in his arms. You catch it on reflex, puzzled when you discover that it's a towel and real, proper pants. 

"Well?" he says, and it sounds bored and drawn out. "You going to put them on, or do you like hanging around in your boxers all the time? Has the great Emerald Bruiser got an exhibitionist streak the world doesn't know about?"

You scowl, and think about throwing them in his face, but you're all too aware of the fact that you've maybe got a shot at escape as long as he's in the same room as you, so you shake out the towel and dry yourself off before pulling the pants on, hoping they're not too ridiculous. They're actually…rather plain. White pants, a little tightfitting, along with black socks and a black kerchief. You're not quite sure what to do with the last, so you tie it around your neck, hoping somewhere in the back of your mind that that will discourage him from any more nibbling at your neck. 

He clears his throat, and then he's there in front of you, settling something around your shoulders and lifting the kerchief to clasp it at the front of your throat, settling it back down when he's done and taking a step back. You crane you neck, trying to get a look at what he's done, and it's…it's your cape. You're not sure how he got ahold of it, but the weight of it on your shoulders feels comfortable and _right_ , making you feel a better than you have since you got here.

"Thanks," you say, and he shrugs, leaving you unsure where to take it from there. You want an excuse to get close to him, but you're not quite sure how, and you don't think last time's ruse will work again. 

You decide to hell with plans, and just say what you're thinking.

"What's your name?" There's a slight furrowing to his brow, but aside from that, his expression doesn't change. Finally, he opens his mouth, giving you only: "Strider."

"Strider." Your mouth shapes the word, trying it out, the unfamiliar syllables possessing a peculiar weight on your tongue. 

You take a step forward, and he tenses, so you take another, doing your best to look imploring when you ask, "What do you really want with me?"

He swallows, still in the way a cat is just before it pounces. "I need a sample from you."

You have a moment of confusion before you realize he means some kind of biological sample, like blood or tissue, then barely manage to catch yourself from smiling and bounding forward, glad to have an excuse to get in his space. 

"Surely one of your robots could have managed that," you scoff, shifting from one antsy foot to the other. 

He shrugs, a fractional lift and drop of one shoulder. "I'd rather do it myself. Come here."

You're quick to obey, hopping forward on light feet, chains clinking behind you. You duck just as you reach him, crouching low and jabbing forward with your left fist, but as well as you thought you hid your intentions, he must have suspected them, because he grabs your arm and _twists_ , forcing you to your knees in tight-lipped pain. 

Then there's a needle at the bend in your arm, and you get hit by a smattering of déjà vu when he pushes in the plunger. It takes you a moment to realize that he's not taking blood and, in fact, just injected you with something, and by then he's retreated, standing back a few feet to watch you with a flat expression as you rub at the rapidly fading pain. The movement feels clumsy, and when you try to rise to your feet, you end up swaying and stumbling back down, sprawling flat on your ass with a force of impact you don't really feel.

"Whath haff, ha, happenin?" You try to form the words, but your tongue's not responding like it should, and when you topple over on your side, room swirling around you, the answer seems pretty obvious: you've been drugged. Again.

Taskmaster—no, Strider, his name is Strider—is by your side then, turning you over onto your side, murmuring that you're alright, everything's fine, it'll wear off soon. You'd glare at him if you could, but he's tucking your knees up against your chest, brushing your hair out of your eyes in this little affectionate way that sort of ruins the affect. 

"Fuh off," you say, and you're pretty sure he gets the message, though all he does is chuckle and say, "Hold still," then chuckle some more. 

He's moving behind you, that much you can tell, but he flips your cape up over your head to expose your back and cutting off what little you could see out of the corner of your eye. His hands are warm against your skin, and it makes you shudder to suddenly realize that there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop him right now.

Well. Maybe not nothing.

He said he needs you to hold still, so the second you feel the prick of something on your back, you pour every ounce of strength you have into bucking him off. 

You manage to move maybe an inch. 

It's enough for a tingling sensation to start up in your legs, and then he's cursing and you're moaning and moving weakly as your legs start burning, racing with sensation, then go completely numb. Sounds tumble out of your mouth, malformed words laced with fear, and it's only Strider putting his hand over your mouth and yelling "Stop moving!" that gets you to still. 

You don't think you've ever heard him yell before, and you wonder why he did now. He doesn't bother to twitch the cape back up from where it's fallen aside, and you can see that his mouth is pressed into a thin line as he looks at your back, manipulating and adjusting something out of your line of vision. He pulls something away, something that looks like a vial of fluid, and you don't know if you should feel worried or relieved that you can't feel anything when he puts your cape back in its proper place.

He sighs, a little thing that you barely catch, and only because you're straining so hard to hear him move. "You should really listen to me, you know. That would have been a lot easier."

You want to say it's not your job to make things easy on him, that he's the one that messed things up, that if he wanted you still, why didn't he just knock you out completely? But the "Ifth nahmaish" you manage is so garbled, you shut your mouth rather than continue. 

"Come here," he says, and then he's pulling you, lifting you up by your armpits and dragging you back until you're settled between his legs, back against his chest and legs sprawled out in front of you, arms limp and hanging in your lap. He's taller than you when you're sitting, or maybe it's just because you're slumped forward, still not in control of your muscles (but at least you can make them twitch and respond a bit, which is more than you can say for your legs—just what did he do to you?), but his chin rests on your shoulder, comfortable and close, breath warm against your ear. 

"Wha—" you begin, but he shooshes you, arms snaking around your waist to clasp together on your stomach, keeping you close. 

"You'll be fine," he says, "Though it would have gone better if you'd just kept still. Your legs are tingling, right? Or else they're numb."

"Umb." You feel him still, and a shot of panic courses through you, but—muted, somehow. 

"Shhh," he says again. "You're fine." You don't really believe him, but everything feels sluggish and distant, so maybe it doesn't matter. 

Something tells you that your lack of worry should worry you, but, well. 

"The drug should be sinking in all the way about now. Keep track of how it's making you feel so you can tell me later, would you? 'Preciate it."

You exhale, trying to roll your head back to look at him. You lean into him more than you meant to, but you manage to look up at his face, eyes close enough to see through his goggles. You think a movie hero would probably spit at him, but you don't feel much like a movie hero right now. You just feel tired. 

His arms loosen around you, one moving up and down to rub your stomach in soothing movements. The other goes down to your thigh, rubbing back and forth in the same way. It feels nice. It shouldn't feel nice, but it does. Then he's leaning forward to softly kiss your neck, and that feels nice too.

Part of you wonders what he's doing. Is worried that he's going to go farther. That you're not going to be able to stop him. That you won't want to.

But he doesn't go any further than that. He rubs your back, your chest, your neck. He cards his fingers through your hair, and you'd push into it if you had any strength in you. 

That's all he does, touching you, sometimes verging close to somewhere you'd object to, but never crossing the line. You think. You're not actually sure where the line is right now. But as long as the both of you are like this, touching and folded together like two people who actually like eachother, enjoy eachother's company, instead of people who spend most of their time trying to kill eachother, well. It makes you feel a little less alone.

He starts talking, after a while. He tells you his first name is Dirk. He says your ass looks really good in those white pants. He says he likes the way you work, and he'd really like it if you considered swapping sides. Villainy gets much better perks, he says. Better costumes, too. It's not really evil, he says, just another way of looking at things. A different moral lens through which to see the world.

He says a lot of things, most of which you don't remember. You do remember the sound of his voice, vibrating through his chest and dripping into your ear. You remember the feel of his hands, covered in rough calluses, roaming across your skin. You remember the smell of him, oil and pressed linen and expensive styling products. 

You remember the feel of his face pressed to the back of your neck, lips whispering across skin, mouthing some secret too precious to say out loud, even when you probably wouldn't remember it. 

You don't remember him leaving. You don't remember falling asleep against him, him kissing your forehead or laying you down. You don't remember the soft way he said goodbye when he left, the too-quiet click of the door pulling shut.

 

You wake laying on your side, head resting on your pillowed arms, cape pulled over you like a blanket. You feel a little thirsty, but otherwise fine, and a part of you is relieved that Dirk was telling the truth, not just because it means you're fine, but because maybe it means you can trust him. Which seems like a really stupid thing to think.

You think things are only going to get more complicated from here. 

 

It takes you several hours to remember Otto, and when you do, it's hard to envision his metal face without it being obscured by Dirk's and the soft, genuine smile he makes when he laughs.


	5. Chapter 5

When he next comes to see you, it's bearing a tray of food.

It's been at least a day, judging by the fact that Jolie brought you two more meals in between. He doesn't really talk, just sets out the food and sits cross-legged in front of you, surprising you when he slides half of it toward himself and begins eating as well. You're not sure where things are going anymore, and you figure your chance of maintaining your image as a hero has pretty much long gone out the window, so you just come right out and say it. "What did you do to Otto?"

He pauses for a moment before resuming chewing and swallowing at his own pace, setting his fork down and dabbing at his mouth with a cloth napkin (that _has_ to be ironic, no one really _dabs_ at their mouth, right?) before finally asking, "I assume you mean the robot that was living with you for a short while?"

You nod, wanting to correct him on how long his stay was, but then, that reminds you that it was only eight days, even if it felt longer. Strider props his elbows up on his knees, steepling his fingers together and resting his chin on top. "He killed himself."

You're up on your feet with a shout before the words fully process, something dark and heady rising inside you. You want to throw yourself at Taskmaster, want to strangle him, throttle him, smash in his stupid face that has no right to look like your friend's, kick his teeth in and grind his jaw under the heel of your boot til he cracks and bleeds. 

"Of course, I stopped him before he could do any serious damage to his software or hard drives. I haven't got around to combing through his code yet, but I feel it's safe to say he probably did it because of you."

That stops you, anger deflating so fast it makes you stumble. "Me?"

He's still seated on the floor, still calm, though his hands rest on his knees now, leaning forward to stare up at you, focused, searching. 

"Yes, you. You were just realizing he betrayed you, remember? I can only hypothesize that it was being confronted with the emotional fallout of his own actions that led him to believe that wiping his drives was the answer. Though, as I said, I was able to stop him."

Your attention snaps to him at that, falling to your knees to get on eye-level with Strider and crawling as close as possible, eyes wide with the possibility of hope. "You, stopped him?"

"From wiping his drives, yes." His voice is even, and he stares at you like he's weighing something. Measuring. You reach for his hand, wanting to take it in yours, but the jerk of the chain stops you short. He always was meticulous about staying just out of reach. You pull your hand back, trying to make it casual, like you were always just going to rub your arm. Completely your intention all along!

"Does that mean he's still…intact?" You're not sure how else to put it, or what you even mean, but when Dirk nods your heart leaps in your chest, pounding too fast for comfort, though you're not sure you care right now. 

"So you can fix him? He's alright?" He shakes his head, just the slightest side-to-side movement, and you end up punching the ground in sheer frustration, knuckles smarting but alright. "Why the bloody hell _not_?"

There it is, that measuring look again, and you still wonder what he's looking for when he responds. "He's his own person. I want him to serve me, yeah, that's what I created him for. But it's still his life. If he wants to take it, that's up to him. I'll just go through his data when I have the time, see if I can avoid the same pitfalls with the next one."

You can't help but gape at him, words out of your mouth before you can think to wonder if they're the right thing to say. 

"You can't do that." He opens his mouth, but you forge on, rising to your feet and straining to get closer, to just reach forward and _shake_ him til he _sees_. 

"He is his own person, a _person_ , and you can't just let him _die_. And don't start that hornswoggle about it being because of me! You did something to him, and don't you dare deny it. You set him up for that betrayal, and now you're just going to let him bite the bullet for you, not even spare a thought for his personhood, just another casualty to one of your schemes? Well _fuck you_! You don't get to _do_ that! Now wake him up and bring him right here this instant!"

"Or what?" He rises to his feet, unhurried grace just that much more infuriating. "You seem to be tossing out threats pretty easily these days, for a guy who hasn't managed to gain the upper hand once since his captivity. I know you think you know what you're talking about, but you don't know _jack shit_ about the brobot. You lived with him eight days? I've lived with him my _whole life_. He's _me_ , you asshole, and if I think he should be allowed to die, then—"

You don't hear him after that. With a roar, you drive forward, something ripping and screeching behind you as the taut chains suddenly go slack, slithering after you without resistance. You crash into him, bearing him back with the weight of your body, straddling his chest and driving your fist into his face again, again, again, before your hands go to his throat, squeeze, thumbs stroking the tender spot at the hollow of his collar bone, pressing hard enough for him to feel the gasp and claw for air, but not hard enough to cut it off completely, not enough to crush his throat. 

"Bring him back," you say, and you don't notice the growl in your voice, don't notice how much deeper it's gone. He gasps, hands scrabbling at your forearms, but you barely register his movement, let alone feel the pain of his attacks. 

"I won't let you kill him." Some part of you knows you've gone overboard, that this isn't helping your cause at all. Some part of you is swamped by guilt, driven to bring back the person whose life you now feel vaguely responsible for ending.

Most of you doesn't even care anymore. Most of you wants to squeeze his neck until it cracks, watch the life drain out of his eyes, slice him open and paint the walls with his blood.

He finally stops trying to pry you off him, hands doing something, moving. You fingers tighten, just a fraction, around him. There's movement out of the corner of your eye, the door to the room opening and closing, something moving too fast to follow, and then—

darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

You wake chained to the wall. 

Not just manacles attached to your wrists and snaking back into those uniform square openings, no. The manacles at your wrists are pulled taut, numbness in your arms telling you you've been like this for a while, even if you were asleep for it. But there are manacles around you ankles, as well, holding your legs a little more than shoulder-width apart and making it impossible to move or shift your stance, take some of the weight off your arms. Then there's a band of some kind of tough material, leather, if you had to guess, across your waist, pulled tight enough to the wall to keep you from moving. And finally, around your throat, you can feel some kind of collar, again, probably leather, anchored to the wall and preventing you from moving your head much. Which is probably for the best, since when you try, a wave of dizziness comes over you, enough to send you stumbling, you think, if you weren't strapped down too tight to move in the first place. 

The room's empty as far as you can tell, but you still call out, "Dirk?" voice croaking on the single syllable. No one answers.

You don't remember how you got here. Your head is pounding and your mouth is dry, so maybe you've been drugged again? Though this doesn't feel the same as those other times. And if you were drugged, why would he chain you up so tightly?

You search your memory, trying to find where it peters out into nothingness, but then the door opens, interrupting your thoughts. One of the robots enters, Squarewave this time, and you give him a weak smile and a "Hey there, chap." 

He rocks back and bounces on his knee-joints in comical display of surprise, then absconds, darting back out of the door before you can call after him again.

You sag in your bonds, trying to shift, to ease the pain, but it doesn't seem to help. You hope Squarewave went to get Dirk. You hope someone can let you know what's going on. 

Though…wait. That's kind of an odd thing to think, isn't it? You're a prisoner of your arch-nemesis. This is the sort of thing you should expect, being chained to the wall, pounding headache, surrounded by darkness and minions scurrying everywhere. You should be angry at him, trying to escape, but you just sort of…miss him.

No, wait. Wait, you are angry. You…he hurt someone. He—

The door opens again, interrupting your thoughts for a second time. You look up, blinking as the lights brighten at the presence of another person, familiar blurry form standing just on the other side of the doorway. Then he steps forward, and your breath catches in your throat.

It's Otto.

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. You feel like you can't breathe, and it's not helping that you're pulling against your bonds, collar digging into your throat. 

      _He killed himself.  
     he did it because of you_  
                 flesh under your fist, giving, wet smacks too loud  
      _you don't know jack shit  
     he's me  
     killed himself_  
                       hands around a throat  
      _me  
     allowed to die_  
                             fear  
      _just let him die_  
                       a life in your hands  
      _killed_  
                       a life destroyed  
      _because of you_

 

You choke then, sob bubbling out of you, tears and snot running, unable to do anything about it. You expect him to rush to you, to break you free or at least comfort you, like he did before, when you bit off more than you could chew in a scrap. He doesn't.

He takes a step back, and you yell, "Wait!" louder than you meant to. "Wait, Otto, please. I'm sorry."

You can't see that well, already blurry vision obscured further by tears, and it isn't until you hear the ring of his metal foot settling back to concrete that you know he's staying.

You take a few breaths, trying to get things under control, wishing you looked a little less pathetic and helpless. After a while, you manage to ask him, "Are you okay?"

"Yes," he says, and something loosens inside you. But.

"Did I kill him?" 

"Did I kill Dirk?"

There's a pause, given an unnatural weight in your mind, like the buzzing of vultures circling a still form, trying to determine if it's dead, except that's not right, no, birds don't buzz. Flies. Flies are what you're thinking of, feeding on dead flesh.

Shit, you killed him, you really—

"No." It takes you a second to understand, and the relief that crashes over you when you do feels overwhelming, and you sag in your bonds once more, small tremors shaking your frame. 

You flinch when a metal hand touches your cheek, not having realized Otto was so close. He withdraws, then reaches out to touch you again, metal cool against wet skin, tracing lightly over the lines of your face. 

"Why are you so upset?" he asks, and you're not wholly sure why, but another sob bubbles up in your throat. 

"I'm sup-posed to be one of the g-good guys," you choke out. "I don't w-want to _hurt_ him." 

He brushes away your fresh tears with his thumb, leaning close enough for the soft glowing edges of his gaze to sharpen and focus. 

"You didn't hurt him," he says, and here, this close, you can pick up on the metallic buzz to his words, a synthesized quality right at the edge of hearing. "He—" and he breaks, cutting himself off as he leans in to press metallic lips to yours.


End file.
